Phoenix
by With a Burning Heart
Summary: Journalist Bella Swan is crushed when instead of covering the Winter Olympics, she is assigned to work the Paralympics; her selfish views are challenged when she meets the subject of an interview.


**Story Title**  
Phoenix

**Summary**  
Journalist Bella Swan is crushed when instead of covering the Winter Olympics, she is assigned to work the Paralympics; her selfish views are challenged when she meets the subject of an interview.

**Rating**  
M

**DISCLAIMER **

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. **

**The organizers of this contest and the authors of the stories submitted intend no copyright infringement.**

**ANONYMITY DISCLAIMER**

**This story is the work of its author and not of this contest. It has been submitted under the With a Burning Heart pen name for the purposes of this contest only. It remains the work of its author.**

"_Welcome to Vancouver, home of the 2010 Olympic Games. International flights use baggage claim B. All other arriving flights use baggage claim A. Smoking is prohibited…_" The exanimate voice over the airport's PA system became a buzzing drone I tuned out. I frowned. The Olympic Games had been over for weeks. Yet they must not have changed the recording. Anticlimactic, to say the least.

Still, when I got to the main arrival hub, a large banner proudly proclaimed Vancouver _Host of the 2010 Paralympic Winter Games, March 12-21_. Even the too-sweet-for-words cartoon mascot Sumi, depicted playing sledge hockey, only deepened my pout.

_Fucking Peter… _I stewed. Being denied a lifelong dream of covering the Winter Olympics as a journalist would be a wound I'd surely bear forever. "The story needs you" was the only reason my editor had given for assigning me to the Paralympics and sending my bubbly but less-qualified colleague Lauren to the Winter Games. Instead of interviewing Apolo Ohno and Shaun White, I'd spent the majority of February stuck back in the bullpen in Seattle, filing fricking Lauren's stories and fact-checking her ass. And her ass needed it. Girl couldn't spell proper names worth a damn.

But what could you expect from a bottle blonde who got her journalism degree from UC Sunblock and probably minored in sorority mixers? When I'd been denied my dream assignment, I'd eyed the Northwestern diploma hanging in my cube with disdain and considered writing a scathing letter to the administration. That Medill degree was supposed to get me any assignment I wanted!

Now I was in Vancouver two weeks too late, covering events that likely wouldn't even be televised. I'd told friends I had an assignment in Canada, not elaborating I'd be writing about the freaking Special Olympics. _Paralympics_, I corrected myself. Apparently, there was a difference, according to Google.

I mentally went over my schedule for the next 24 hours as I wrangled my luggage from the carousel. _Shower. Dinner. Research on profile and interview questions. Sleep. Breakfast. Drive to Whistler. Meet with profile sub. Watch practice run… _Normally I lived for the frenetic pace of these trips, rubbing shoulders with luminaries and big shots, eating in strange restaurants, being on my feet 18 hours straight, and pouring out my notes into story form as soon as I got back to my hotel room. But everything about this trip was a letdown, before it had even begun. Except, of course, my travel buddy and photographer…

"Laurent!" I squealed when I spotted the tall, bearded Canuck. I was hoisted up into a hug. "I haven't seen you since that thing in Toronto a couple years ago? How are you?"

"Isabella!" he exclaimed in heavily accented English, his voice sliding over the vowels smoothly. "It is wonderful to see you. You looked so forlorn standing over here with your bag."

I faked a smile. "I'm really glad we're working together again." Laurent and I had always gotten along well and had similar work ethics; knowing I'd be working with him was one of the only things I'd looked forward to when planning this assignment.

We shared a rental car, deposited our luggage in our rooms, and met back at the hotel restaurant without having to verbally coordinate.

"So, Bella," Laurent began once we'd ordered coffee, "tell me why you are trying so hard to look happy to be here." Damn, he was good.

"I've got bullshit from Peter," I breezed, trying to sound like I wasn't heartbroken. "He should have assigned me the Games. I worked Salt Lake City in 2002. Hell, I've interviewed some of those athletes before. But he gave the plum assignment to this bimbo instead." I shrugged. "I'm trying to figure out why he hates me."

"I'm sure it wasn't your offense," Laurent said smoothly. "Maybe she gives good head."

I snorted. "If I didn't know he was married with three kids, I'd say Peter batted for your team," I teased him. "Seriously, it couldn't be that. He's so indifferent to all of the reporters."

"Well, if he ever turns, let me know if he's available. I like the bossy ones," he nudged me with a wink.

OoOoO

After we'd eaten a quick dinner, gone over travel arrangements and assignments for the next morning, and caught up on each other's lives, Laurent and I parted ways. I took a quick shower, got comfortable, and fired up my laptop to do some research for the next day's interview.

Besides the everyday parlaying of information about medals, events, news, etc., I'd been assigned a few profile pieces for the weekly _Northwest Magazine_ that came in the paper. I was hoping for a cover out of one of them. I googled my first profile, skimming articles and mentions that popped up and making notes on a steno pad.

_A born daredevil … competing in the Super G … car accident … spinal cord injury … paraplegic … former competitive downhill skier … Alaska … supportive family_

I was shocked to find my profile sub had only been paralyzed for about 4 years. _How can one relearn a skill like skiing in a completely different way?_

As I finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted from travel and work, I wondered if I was strong enough to relearn my life—all my daily activities and compulsions—from the confines of a wheelchair. I hugged my pillow, selfishly grateful I didn't have to seriously ponder it.

OoOoO

The next morning, Laurent and I began the two-hour trip up to the Olympic Village at Whistler, laughing and chatting over bagels and coffee from Tim Horton's. Before heading to the ski venue to photograph the athletes, he dropped me off at the Whistler Media Centre.

I surveyed the large media room, picking a good-sized table in a quiet corner. It was still early, but a few reporters were scattered around, drinking coffee, making notes, conducting interviews, a couple even cutting together video footage on their laptops, probably for an evening news broadcast. My cell vibrated in my pocket, and I yanked it out. My editor.

"Hi Peter," trying to keep from rolling my eyes. _Calling to check up on me, were you?_

"Swan. Did you make it to Whistler alright? What about Laurent, is he set? How are your profiles shaping up?" His voice was like the staccato tap of typewriter keys moving rapidly. I knew his brain was already 10 questions ahead of my answers, so I avoided details.

"All set up. Waiting on my contact now. Laurent's getting shots of the practice runs and venue. We're all just fine here." I allowed my voice the faintest tinge of bored pisstivity to let him know I was a big girl capable of handling my own schedule without checking in.

He sighed. "Swan, I know this isn't where I want to be, but do you think you could cap the attitude and do your job?"

I decided to be obvious. "You're right. It's not where I wanted to be. I am doing my job, but that doesn't mean I'm excited about interviewing some no-name skier for the fake Olympics." I swiveled around, gasped, and nearly dropped my phone. Standing not two feet away was a devastatingly handsome man. Though his face was disapproving, it was beautiful, his rough-hewn and stubbled jaw and perfectly crooked nose cutting angles I would sculpt in marble, if I knew how. His eyes, looking back at me with one brow cocked questioningly, were green with golden-brown flecks. I continued to gape like some sort of freshwater fish species, unblinking, unable to move, even.

The angel spoke: "You must be Isabella Swan." His voice was low and a little scratchy, as though he'd just woken up, and hearing him say my name made my toes want to curl right then and there. I started imagining him saying it with different intonations and levels of intensity. _Wait, he just SAID YOUR NAME. WAKE UP. _I jumped and probably gasped aloud again.

It occurred to me that Peter was still bellowing into my right ear. _"…if you don't want me to assign you features in the future, I'm sure one of a dozen interns would take your place in a heartbeat, and with less…_"

"You're right. I'm sorry, Peter. I have to go." I hung up without another thought.

"Isabella Swan?" the angel asked. I wanted to punch myself in the face for not finding my voice faster.

"Yes," came out as a chipmunk-like squeak. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yes, I'm Bella Swan, with _Northwest Magazine_." He couldn't be my contact, seeing as he'd walked up to me on two legs. I regrouped mentally and flashed him my most winning smile. "And you are…?"

"Edward Cullen." _Such a nice name. Wait, did he say _Cullen_? _"I'm Jasper Cullen's brother and part of his coaching team." _Oh, no. No, no, no. _"He's running a bit late up at Creekside and asked me to come down to let you know he was on his way." _Shit, shit, shit. _He narrowed his eyes a little bit.

My face was surely the reddest it had ever been, and I felt physical pain at what this man had just heard me say. "Oh, it's not— problem— I'm fine," I stuttered out, surely sounding like an idiot. It occurred to me that he looked like he despised me.

"Why are you here?" he blurted, then added, "I mean, if you so desperately want to be somewhere else. In fact, why are you a reporter at all if you aren't interested in the story at hand?"

_Ouch… _I desperately fumbled for any semblance of poise I had left. "I'm so sorry, you caught me at a bad moment. I've been disappointed that I wasn't able to cover the Vancouver Games a few weeks ago. But I'm sure my editor had a good reason for sending me to the Paralympics instead." _Even if he didn't tell me the reason, _I silently added.

His face softened a bit as he processed my words. "So, you were really crushed you didn't get to cover the Olympics."

I cast my eyes down. "I used to watch the Winter Olympics just completely captivated every year. Particularly with the ice-skating. I grew up in Phoenix, where the temperature only dropped below freezing maybe one day a year. I'd never seen snow before I moved to Washington just before college." He raised his eyebrows in surprise, a faint smile lighting his somber face.

"Something about the ice and snow just seemed magical," I shrugged, looking down and feeling myself blush as though I'd shared something embarrassing. I rerouted quickly: "In college I got to do an internship in Salt Lake City during the 2002 games, pretty much my dream job."

He smiled for real now. "I always felt that way, too, about winter sports. Though I grew up in Alaska, so snow was around … a lot. Being on skis or skates just felt natural."

I felt myself smile back, a little mollified. "I'm actually horribly clumsy, so any sport that requires coordination while wearing sharp steel blades is not a smart idea for me."

It was his turn to look embarrassed. "Look…" he cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to impugn you for your career choice just now. I just… we've had some … difficult … experiences with reporters. Particularly after Jasper's accident – some of them seemed determined to paint it in a tragic light. I just want to make sure you know, there's a lot more to him than the accident and his condition."

I just nodded, but tried to show him how seriously I took his statement.

"I heard he's only been on wheels for four years. How is it he's been able to … regroup, train, and make it to the Paralympics?" I asked earnestly.

"Jasper is special," Edward started. "You'll see what I mean. Failure is just not an option for him. And neither is mediocrity. He excels. Our dad, Carlisle, coaches him, but he hardly needs it. He doesn't need my help, either." He paused and consulted his watch.

"So, how do you fit into the coaching team?" I began to ask, but a commotion at the door drew both our attention as several people entered. Central to the group was the man I knew must be Jasper propelling himself in a wheelchair followed by a man who had to be Carlisle, his coach. They were joined by an elfin scrap of a woman wearing a fur hat that would've looked ridiculous on anyone else, but looked adorable on her; an attractive couple who appeared to be in their early 30s; and an elegant older woman I guessed was Jasper's mother.

"Hey guys," Edward waved them over and motioned to introduce me. Instead of waiting on him, I walked straight to Jasper and held out my hand. "Jasper, I'm Bella Swan, _Northwest Magazine. _It's so nice to finally meet you and your team."

Jasper's face held similar angles to his brother's, and though his hair was equally unruly as Edward's disheveled, red-brown crew cut, Jasper's was blond, and curly. I could see he took it from his father, who had ruddy good looks and a blond moustache.

Jasper gave me a genuine smile. "Hey, Bella," he said casually, as if we were old friends. "This is the team." I moved to shake hands with each one as he named them. "My dad, Carlisle, coaches me. My mother, Esme. My brother, Emmett, and sister-in-law, Rosalie."

The statuesque blonde Rosalie gave me a sharp eye. "I fine-tune the monoski," she said, referring to the seated ski that made it possible for Jasper to compete. I almost laughed at her unsolicited frankness.

"Yes, Rosalie is my grease monkey," Jasper said, grinning. "And this is my wife: Alice." He seemed likely to burst from pride. The elfin girl in the fur hat cautiously smiled at me and extended a tiny hand.

"Nice to meet you, _Bella_," she said, and her voice sounded like faint music. Her eyes darted from me to Edward and back to me again. And she smiled. _What's that about?_

I motioned for all of us to sit down at one of the round tables, but Emmett and Rosalie excused themselves, saying they wanted to explore the Media Centre.

"Were you getting in some practice runs before your event on Wednesday?" I asked Jasper.

"Actually, my event, the Super G, is a little different from other downhill events. It combines some of the characteristics, but I'm not allowed to train the course at full speed before the race at all."

"Not at all?" I questioned. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Well, I've trained on so many different runs, I'm able to adapt pretty quickly. And we are allowed a one-hour visual inspection the morning of the race. It makes the event unpredictable, but that's what I love about it." His eyes, which I'd just noticed were a light blue, lit up as he talked about his sport.

"So, you grew up in a little town near Anchorage called Girdwood?" I asked.

"Yes," Jasper replied. "It's a resort town. Our dad was an instructor. We all learned to ski basically when we learned to walk." I tried to keep from grimacing at his terminology, thinking he must feel pain when he remembered walking, running, skiing on two legs. His face never changed, though, and he seemed completely comfortable.

The part of the interview I'd been dreading couldn't be avoided any longer. "So, I read some of the reports from your … accident." I cringed, unable to hold eye contact. Still, I felt Jasper's blue eyes boring into me, his expression unchanging. "You swerved to avoid hitting a moose and ran into a tree?"

I reluctantly met his gaze again, shocked again to see him completely calm. Most interviewees didn't like talking about past trauma; some even became belligerent when I'd done my homework and questioned them. But Jasper's eyes were the same chilled blue as they'd been a few minutes before.

"Yes," he said. "Alice was in the car with me. I thought I could swerve to the other side safely, but I didn't take the ice into account. We were going about 50, and ended up sliding the driver's side into a large tree, which pinned me in. Thank God, Alice was fine. … The moose, too." He winked. _Winked!_

I couldn't believe this man could take the single greatest tragedy of his life and instead give thanks that he'd been able to protect others. Instead of cruising past it, I asked "So, next to Alice, you must really like moose, then?" I risked. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"What can I say, I'm a vegetarian?" he said, and gave me a teethy grin, his eyes lighting up. We all had a hearty laugh, and went on to discuss his event in more detail. I felt inspired by his candor and his drive to win.

"I also read you're hoping to beat the World Record for seated Super G … I believe it's 130 miles per hour?"

"It's actually 136," Edward the Gorgeous piped in. _As one of Jasper's coaching team he must be up-to-date on the latest records and competitor scores_, I realized.

"Thanks," I said, lowering my eyes hastily as I was afraid I'd get caught in his tractor beam again and lose all coherent thought. I scribbled the stat in my notes and refocused on Jasper. "So…?"

"Yes. I will do it," he said levelly and without hesitation, and his silver-blue eyes burned into my soul. His desperation made it almost painful to hold eye contact. He was laid bare, unable to hide the burning within, the desire to win. Alice scooted her chair closer and put her hand over his, her eyes a little teary. He reluctantly broke our eye contact to look at her lovingly.

I realized despite all the feel-good ad campaigns, participation alone did not make him a winner. His eyes told me only first place would satisfy him — not to best the other skiers, but because, I could now see, he had lost in his injury every iota of self-control, pride, he'd ever had. But he had risen from the ashes like a phoenix. I could see the ghost of the flames in his eyes.

I mused perhaps it was worse to have lost the function of your legs than to have been born paraplegic. I wondered how many of Jasper's rivals fit which category. And suddenly I so heavily felt their desperation, their need to prove they could compete, could win, despite being less than whole, physically.

Jasper needed to be whole again. And his chance would come the following day.

We spoke at length about the ins and outs of seated skiing, the risks and rewards, until I felt I had enough information. When we parted, Alice grabbed my hand impulsively. I'd almost forgotten she was there, but Jasper kept directing his attention to her periodically while we spoke, his expression almost worshipful. I found myself envious of what she had, and her modesty and shyness communicated that she felt herself undeserving, but loved him equally. I felt grateful to whatever higher power had kept the both of them alive through the accident.

As Alice grasped my hand, her eyes found mine. She had the same sort of spellbinding gaze as Edward, though her eyes were a very deep brown.

"Bella, would you come tomorrow, to Jasper's run? I really think you belong there."

"Of course, I'm covering the event as press," I assured her. She shook her head, unsatisfied.

"No," she said shyly. "I think you should be with us, in the family viewing area." I started to protest, but she squeezed my hand harder. "Please," she pleaded.

"Okay," I agreed.

OoOoO

The next morning, I gave my name and credentials at the family viewing area. I first spotted Edward and Esme, leaning against the temporary fencing. Rosalie and Emmett were further down, close to the track. Edward's expression was decidedly dark, and he seemed stressed. I could feel the tension on the air among all the competitors' families. I couldn't imagine how badly they wanted their loved ones to be victorious.

"Is everything okay?" I asked in lieu of a greeting.

"Fine," Edward said unconvincingly. Esme just looked fretful. "Carlisle's up with Jasper. He's up third. Alice ran off somewhere around here. She has a hard time handling the pressure. It's hard to explain – she just sees things that other people don't and worries a lot. I think Jasper would be calmer if he could spot her up here, watching him. He's definitely on edge."

"Edward, I checked, and a lot of the first-time paralympic athletes train for the relatively easier events, like downhill speed or slolem," I said. He nodded, understanding what I was getting at.

"Jasper skis the Super G because it's one shot, one time. And the skier's mettle is tested by the unpredictable nature of it. For him, the greatest risk yields the sweetest success," said Edward, his eyebrows knit together as he stared out at the course.

_Of course_. _Nothing risked, nothing gained_.

"I'll find Alice." I nodded, laying a hand on his shoulder. His brow lightened infinitesimally. I set off back towards the lodge from the family viewing area.

And I did find her, around the farthest corner of the lodge, almost completely out of sight of the run. She was wiping tears from her face with an embroidered hankie.

"I'm sorry!" she cried before I could say anything. I just put my arms around her instinctually, shocked at my own boldness. Normally I was not the touchy-feely type. She clutched me back. "I knew you were important," she said. "You need to be here. Edward even needs you to be here." I stiffened – _what was she getting at? _She seemed to sense my confusion. "I can't explain it. I just know – we needed you here; thank you for coming.

"You see now, Jasper isn't just a paraplegic. He's making strides. He won't always be this way. The doctors told him he'd never walk again, that we'd never be able to conceive children naturally. But they're wrong – both he and I know it. He's already succeeded so much."

"Of course, Alice." I said, trying to sound understanding. "Do you want to go back to Esme and Edward now?" She nodded and followed me back like an obedient lamb.

"You're just in time," Esme breathed when we rejoined them. "He's next." Alice was still squeezing my hand, almost painfully. Edward was flat against the fencing, as close to the run as he could get.

We were holding our breaths when the horn sounded. Jasper took off like a shot, flying down the run, until the first obstacle. As he whipped around the flag, many things happened at once. I heard Edward yell, and Rosalie cursed loudly. I saw Jasper, unable to compensate for the next turn, his monoski shaking ominously, and then he was down, down in the snow. Esme clapped her hand to her mouth. Edward began pacing back and forth angrily, muttering something about the snow being so icy from recent rain.

"Edward, what happens now?" I asked softly. "Will they set him back up, restart the clock? Will he have to take a penalty?"

"No," he said quietly, the muscles in his jaw tensing up as he stared out at the course. "It's the same as the Olympics. You train for years, to have one chance."

"But that wasn't… I mean, he didn't get a proper chance," I trailed off, realizing that I was wrong. Seeing for the first time how much was truly riding on that one moment, everything culminating in one minute, one chance. I felt devastated. I had no more words. I simply hugged Esme, Alice—whose eyes were amazingly clear, her face peaceful—and squeezed the hands of Rosalie and Emmett in solidarity. I walked the few steps to Edward, and he turned to me.

"I have to go to him," he said without preamble. I nodded, and placed my hand on his arm. He looked down at it.

"Thank you," I said, "for not giving up on me. For letting me be a part of your family today. And please tell Jasper how proud I am of him." His eyes snapped back to mine, full of emotions – pain, surprise, pride…

"Thank you," he said, and he was gone, headed to the athletes' area before I could blink.

OoOoO

As I culled my notes and put together the piece later that night, I went over and over the strange events of the morning. I couldn't shake off the shock and despair over Jasper's run. But I kept coming back to Alice's expression of peace, through everyone else's heartache. I hadn't even seen Jasper again, as he went straight back to the Olympic Village. As I mused over my last paragraph, I tried to understand why Alice felt such peace despite the huge disappointment, remembered the details of his recovery she'd shared, and what he and Edward had told me.

_Though Cullen's run ultimately could not be completed, his victory over paralysis is imminent. Doctors who originally delivered his ambulatory death knell now forecast he could walk again within two years. Cullen is unfazed. "Of course I'll walk," he says. "But I'll also ski again._"

I smiled as I hit send, and the story was no longer mine. I believed him.

About an hour later, my phone rang. "Swan," Peter's gruff voice came through the phone at me. "Read the Cullen piece. I was really hoping for a victory piece, woulda made a great cover."

"I know, but Peter, it IS a victory piece. He is winning the battle against paralysis, slowly but surely. And in his practice runs, he was topping 140 mph. We need to keep an eye on him." I struggled for the right words to express my emotion. "I just feel like… Jasper might not be the strongest athlete yet, but he's done so much in so little time. He's just determined to succeed no matter what curveball is thrown at him. The whole time we spoke, he never once griped about losing his mobility. He was just determined to rise above the challenges, to be the best possible skier, no matter what his status."

I let that sink in to us both, but Peter spoke again before I could.

"Sounds like it was a good lesson for you, too, Swan," he said, and let it hang between us longer than I felt comfortable.

"I know," I said.

OoOoO

A week after I'd returned home and saved my clips, my phone rang at work. An Alaska number. I picked it up smiling, hoping it would be Jasper. "Hello?"

I heard a throat clear. "Bella?" _Edward! _The tractor beam was noticeable even over the phone.

"Yes, this is Bella Swan." I struggled to sound professional, nonchalant. Inside I was bouncing. He cleared his throat again. It occurred to me he might've had some issue with the article. _I know I mentioned the accident, but I really felt the victory overshadowed that_. I started to panic just a little.

"Bella, we all read the article. Thank you," he said, sounding relieved. I let out a huge breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Jasper loved what you wrote. He— we were all very touched."

I hoped he meant _he _was very touched.

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" he asked. _What? Strange turn in the conversation_.

"No. I've always wanted to go, since I moved to Seattle and am so much closer. But not yet," I replied.

"Well, I wanted to … kind of … extend an invitation to you," he said, sounding almost shy. My heart took off at a full gallop. "My family would love it if you came and stayed with us. You'd be welcome."

I took a deep breath. There were a million questions running through my mind, but I didn't care about any of them, really. "I would love to," I said simply.

"Great," he said, sounding relieved — happy, even. "I'll e-mail you with some possible dates. I just, I wanted to talk to you again —I mean, to thank you, again." He sounded almost bashful. I held in a squeal and smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. "Thank you – for getting Jasper's story right. For painting him as a champion, for helping people see that."

"He is," I said simply. And after we'd hung up, I said a silent thanks to Jasper, for helping _me_ to see.

END


End file.
